


Le Dernier Coup De Blanc

by fraternite



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Puns, Canon Era, Death, Gen, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 07:23:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2142177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraternite/pseuds/fraternite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Enjolras is putting on a good face for the sake of those who remain here, even while he tries to spare as many as he can, but Combeferre sees the way his knuckles are white where his hands clench on the ends of his jacket sleeves. He hears the momentary hesitation in his voice, the pitch just half a tone higher than it should be. He notices the awkwardness when Enjolras climbs off the crate and tosses it onto the barricade--his aim terrible, as if he's throwing blindly."</p><p>On the barricade, as ever, Combeferre does his best to support and cheer Enjolras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Dernier Coup De Blanc

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slightly reworked version of a drabble I posted on tumblr. Sorry about the horrible puns; in my defense, the prompt was about a joke so terrible that you can't help but laugh. Please just pretend they work in French.

Enjolras is seven years old and his favorite boat, a little wooden sloop painted in gaudy shades of red and yellow and green, has just been carried away down the river. Enjolras stares after the toy, chin trembling, still too much in shock to start wailing. Combeferre, who has just been introduced to the magical world of puns by an uncle (who failed to mention that there is a time and a place for them, a omission Combeferre's mother thoroughly regrets), tells him, "It was a _boat_ time that happened!" Enjolras stares at him for a full half a minute, anger building in his teary blue eyes, before the joke clicks and he starts to giggle instead, surprised out of his misery.

Enjolras is fourteen and has broken his wrist falling from a tree that he wasn't supposed to be climbing in the first place. As they're waiting for the doctor to arrive, Combeferre looks from his friend's white, strained face to the injured hand cracled in his lap and remarks, "Well, on the other hand, you're fine!" Enjolras snickers through his tears. "I don't think you appreciate the _gravity_ of the situation," he tells Combeferre.

Enjolras is twenty and has just received a letter from his father, threatening to cut him from the family if he continues his seditious activities, which M. Enjolras describes as "disgraceful," "irresponsible," and, worst of all, "childish." Combeferre listens in silence as Enjolras rants, then agonizes over the choice his father has set up for him--betray his motherland or never see his blood mother again--then rants some more. After he has finally lapsed into an exhausted silence, his head in his hands, Combeferre ventures, "It seems to me that the one responsible in this situation is ap _parent."_ Enjolras lifts his head and the dead look retreats from his eyes as he starts to chuckle quietly. When Combeferre adds, "All the harm done is _relative,_ in any case," the chuckles turn to outright laughter. Enjolras falls back, helpless, in his chair, and it takes him several minutes and numerous long breaths through his nose to get control of himself.

* * *

Enjolras is twenty-six and he stands on an empty crate and announces to his companions that they are surrounded by soldiers and cannons, that the revolutionary fervor that raged in the streets that morning was nothing but a brushfire, that the other barricades have already fallen. And Combeferre's heart aches for him.

Enjolras is putting on a good face for the sake of those who remain here, even while he tries to spare as many as he can, but Combeferre sees the way his knuckles are white where his hands clench on the ends of his jacket sleeves. He hears the momentary hesitation in his voice, the pitch just half a tone higher than it should be. He notices the awkwardness when Enjolras climbs off the crate and tosses it onto the barricade--his aim terrible, as if he's throwing blindly.

As he talks with the others, filling the hours until dawn, Combeferre waits for Enjolras. They pass someone's flask around the circle, and Combeferre speaks of those who have fallen, giving Bahorel and Prouvaire their eulogies now, since he won't live long enough to do it at their funerals. Someone pours out just a drop of the liquor as a libation for the fallen, and Combeferre thinks, distantly, that Prouvaire would have liked the gesture.

He feels, rather than hears, Enjolras come up behind him. He doesn't move immediately, waiting for the conversation to go on to other things, withdrawing from it so gradually that he's hardly missed at all when he stands up and follows Enjolras inside the gutted cafe.

As soon as the door closes behind them, a ragged sob breaks from Enjolras's throat.

"I didn't--it's not what--" For once, Enjolras can't find the words for what he wants to say. Combeferre lays a hand on his shoulder, and Enjolras spins around, crying hot, angry tears into Combeferre's shoulder. "It's not _right,_ they shouldn't--not everyone. I thought it would turn out differently, I--I really did. Now it's all--it's the _trois glorieuses_ all over again, only we don't even have the illusion of victory."

Combeferre runs his hand through Enjolras's tangled curls and rests it at the back of his neck. He rests his forehead against his friend's hair and allows himself a few tears of his own--for Jean Prouvaire, dying alone in front of a row of hostile faces; for the child Gavroche who'd died for the men who were trying to give him a future. For himself, for his hands still stained with the blood of his friends, his memory still stained with the image of that blood welling up between his fingers as he pressed his hands to Bahorel's chest. For the copy of the new book _Principles of Geology_ sitting on his table at home, unread.

With a few more shuddering sobs, Enjolras gets control of himself. He lets go of Combeferre's waistcoat and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Combeferre brushes the hair back from his forehead once more, the gesture as familiar and nautral to him as buttoning a shirt, then lets him go.

In silence, the two dry their faces, taking deep, shaky breaths, preparing themselves to go back out and be leaders once again. Relishing this moment to feel and need and want, and to show all that, perhaps for the last time. Their eyes meet, and even in the dimness, their glance says a host of different things . . . but more than anything else, _Thank you. For everything, through all the years._

After a long moment, Enjolras straightens his shoulders and turns toward the door. His slow, awkward movements speak of the burden that weighs on him--both his responsibility for those who wait outside and the knowledge of his own time running to an end--and there is nothing Combeferre can say to change any of that, no way to lessen that weight or make any of it any better. But Enjolras's slow shuffle, his hesitation before touching the latch sends a pang through Combeferre's heart, and he wants so badly to see him smile--just once more. Before he has time to think, the words are tumbling out of his mouth.

"I'm afraid we've made a--grave--error."

Enjolras turns to him with an incredulous look, and for a moment, Combeferre feels ashamed for cheapening a solemn moment with his stupid, awkward attempt to make this night into something it cannot be. Then a quiet laugh breaks from Enjolras's lips, and Combeferre regrets nothing.

Enjolras shakes his head, struggling against the grin playing on his lips, and failing. "Even for you, my friend, this is _tomb_ much."

Combeferre feels an impossible smile spread across his face. "That was terrible," he tells Enjolras.

In the darkness, Enjolras's hand finds his. "So was yours."

Hand in hand, they go out to the barricade.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the original French concept song La Nuit De L'Angoisse:
> 
> COMBEFERRE  
> C'est peut-être le dernier  
> le dernier coup de blanc  
> avant le coup de grâce  
> Allez, vide ton verre  
> et remplis vite le mien  
> avant que la mort passe
> 
> Which never really seemed in character for Combeferre before. But maybe I see it now?


End file.
